My mom and I moved into his house when I was 7. Our house was across the street from a church. Not the church he took us to, though that would have been convenient. We lived at the beginning of the street, next to a wash'n'dry laundromat and a car garage inhabited with more cobwebs than cars.

Inside, the cats inherited a corner next to the dining table and made an altar of piss that stained the carpet until my mom finally ripped it all out and put down hardwood floors. Through the kitchen, next to the neglected litter box, there was a backdoor. It was the quietest to open and close. I used the backdoor when I wanted to run away.

My methods of escape as a child were varied. Before I became old and bold enough to leave the house by myself, I found ways to leave my body - Game Boy, movie marathons, daydreaming. As I got older and the “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question had more serious implications, I started to dream about leaving the country. I thought that if I went somewhere far, no one would ask me to come home for Christmas, let alone any other day of the year.

To prepare for this ideal future, I spent my pre-teen afternoons studying languages at the library. I didn't know how to learn a language back then or where I wanted to go, but I diligently copied vocabulary words from different textbooks and their English translations side by side. In addition to the library, I developed a running hobby as part of my escape repertoire. Running 3 to 5 miles a day (4 to 8 kilometers) allowed me to be out of the house for substantial stretches of time.

My running shoes took me through every street of the city I could reach on foot. Leaving through the front door, I'd burst into a sprint to shed pent-up frustration and avoid being called back home. When my stamina weakened, I slowed down to a walk and took in the sights and sounds of suburbia. Passing one house after another, I made up stories about the families who lived in these houses.

Every family in my imagined stories was cinnamon roll-sweet happy. I solved every plot twist problem I wrote for them with the ease of a strawberry lemonade on a summer afternoon. Not only were the individual families content in their own units, but they got along with their neighbors and planned parties and major life celebrations together. Every street was its own TV show, and every walk was an episode.

When I ran out of stories and energy for running, I'd come back home and do my best to avoid conversation (also commonly known as unwarranted and unsolicited criticism) with “dad.” As sloth was one of the seven deadly sins, running earned me praise and allowed me to stay quiet by claim of exhaustion.

Five hours at the library, a five-mile run, or five movies in a row, whatever method required to pretend I was someone else who was somewhere else. I made escapism an everyday art and a rock-solid routine that could only be broken by a large “dad” outburst that demanded me to clock in for attention and regulation. “Dad” was the most emotional person in the room, always. His temper tantrums were sonic booms that produced a fearful silence among us. “Dad” masked his cruelty with twisted definitions of logic, rationality and religion (“God says you're bad, not me.”)

Adults sometimes operate under the illusion of superiority because they carry a more robust vocabulary which they can wield to humiliate children. Those adults fail to recognize that they attained this vocabulary neither through effort nor talent, but simply by having been born earlier than the children they talk down to. The confusion these adults weave with intellect they feign to have never sticks. That doesn't make it easier for children to swallow the adults' pained attempts at faking wisdom. Children will always be sacred. People who hurt children will always be damned.

Entering my teenage years, I couldn't be obviously rebellious, because I feared my acting out would come back around as punishment onto my mom. So instead, I learned to be a good liar. I produced a persona I thought would get the least amount of vitriol. I was 13 when I got into the new and short-lived hobby of sneaking out.

One night, when mom was working the night shift, and “dad” was fast asleep, I tiptoed carefully out of my room, opening and closing the doors behind me at the slowest of speeds to prevent the waking thunder of creaking wood. I carried my running shoes with the clench of one hand and guided myself through the darkness, avoiding furniture, with the other.

I left the backdoor unlocked. I hadn't made it past the laundromat when I noticed my shoes were untied. I knelt down behind some bushes to do my laces when 4 or 5 police cars drove by me. The cop cars had their blue and red lights on but made no noise. It was a lightweight omen. I felt lucky. In the light of the moon, I walked past the same houses I saw in the day.

The world was quiet. I could barely hear my own footsteps as the darkness seemed to eat up all the sound. I wasn't telling stories in my head anymore. I knew I was young, and I knew I was small, that this was probably stupid and that if someone caught me the list of consequences ranged from being locked in the house until I was 18 or a feature episode on America's Most Wanted, but I kept going.

I was on a familiar street and passing by a friend's house when a car slowed down behind me. There was no sidewalk and I had been walking on the road. It was the first time I had ever caught someone's attention on an outing. I ran behind a bush next to the closest house and hid. I was wearing a red jacket, a conspicuous and nonstrategic choice. The bush was small, but it was the closest and only choice. I could see clearly through the leaves which meant that the car should have been able to see me.

They pulled up in front of the house, car engine and lights on, and lingered for a few seconds. I held my breath not knowing how to prepare for what would happen next. I had more than a mile left to walk home. And then, the car drove off. Still in hiding, I weighed my options. I could either stay put until some kind of daylight came through, or I could run like hell and let luck carry me through to the end.

Alternating between racing at speeds I hadn't attempted before and catching breaths, I finally arrived home around 5 AM. I crept in as quietly as I left. I was drained, relieved and full of adrenaline. I set my shoes down, took off my jacket and mentally transitioned to my “I've been home all night” character. I survived 3 miles worth of threat dodging, and unlike my silent exit, I now felt entitled to make noise and take up space. “Dad” was still asleep, seemingly undisturbed and completely oblivious to my absence. Making sure I left no precaution stone unturned, I invented a story about why I was awake at dawn while I showered. “I had a nightmare, I was sweaty,” classic and foolproof.

After the creepy car incident, I didn't attempt a nighttime sneak out again. I was relieved that I didn't get caught, by “dad” or anyone else, but keeping this secret made me feel alone and somewhat see-through. This story was another part of me I couldn't share with the adults I was forced to spend the majority of my waking life with. I didn't want to take needless risks to get attention or “feel something,” I only wanted to be free. I had plans to leave: this house, this country, the whole continent.

If I could trace the origin of my pre-teen resilience, I would offer two points of consideration.

One, I knew what it felt like to be loved. Certain relationships will narrow your vision and attempt to salt the garden of your imagination. But my survival instinct remained intact. Something inside me was telling me “hold on, this will be over eventually” and I had no other voice to rely on. Even if I couldn't go back in time to grandma, I knew the only way out of this godforsaken present was forward into the autonomy of adulthood.

Two, I don't know who this Bible-thumping motherfucker thought he was or if the power trip he exerted over mom had gotten into his head and made him believe he was capable of acts greater than himself, but if he thought he could break the will of a pre-teen girl, I was going to show him hell on Earth.